


Shatter

by EmilianaDarling



Series: Figment-Verse [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn’t cornered Hummel, hadn’t threatened him. Hadn’t thrown him into more lockers or tossed slushies in his face or called him names across the Cafeteria like usual. Dave hadn’t done anything at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shatter

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate universe follow-up to "Figment", also archived here. It breaks off after the confrontation between Kurt, Blaine, and Dave in 2x06.
> 
> It really struck me upon watching both scenes in the principal's office that Dave really is a remarkable actor. Neither his parents nor his friends seem to know the real him; this was written as a kind of exploration of that notion.

In the days following the kiss, Dave had considered doing some crazy shit. He’d thought about finding Kurt Hummel and cornering him in some abandoned classroom – or a crowded hallway, for all the help anyone would extend to the smaller boy. Dave had considered threatening Hummel. Coming up to him, all brawn and height and scowling face and saying the kind of shit that stops people from talking.

 _You tell anyone, I’ll kill you._

 He’d thought of hitting Kurt in that pretty mouth of his – soft, and full, and so fucking perfect. It would only take one punch send Kurt flying to the floor, he was sure – and then he’d keep going. His fists would slam into Kurt over and over and _over_ until his lip split and blood filled his mouth and he sobbed and cried and tried to curl against the torrent. Dave would punch, and kick, and crack ribs, and bruise pale skin until he was in control again. Until he wasn’t so fucking helpless anymore.

But every time he’d considered lashing out – of rearing up and daring that faggot to tell anyone – he’s seen the Kurt from that sick, awful, _ohgodhowcouldIeventhinkthat_ daydream. Kurt, struggling and sobbing and beautiful against the locker room wall as Dave touched, and kissed, and took what didn’t belong to him. Kurt, terrified and shaking. Dave remembered the bone-deep disgust and his churning stomach and the horror as come spurted over Dave’s hand. As he got off imagining raping a defenceless boy half his size.

 _“Please. You don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t want – I – you – ah!”_

He hadn’t cornered Hummel, hadn’t threatened him. Hadn’t thrown him into more lockers or tossed slushies in his face or called him names across the Cafeteria like usual.

Dave hadn’t done anything at all.

 

\---

 

The sun is bright on Dave’s eyelids, the heat of it slightly oppressive as he drifts into consciousness.

 _Afternoon._

Dave opens his eyes reluctantly against the brightness, rolling onto his side and blearily looking at the boxy red numbers of his alarm clock. They inform him that it is 1:03pm.

It’s Thursday. English class will just be starting, then.

Dave used to like English, if only privately. He’d always done well in that class. Even as he noisily complained about assignments and rolled his eyes with Azimio at the gay fucking poetry, he’d always attended. Done well on assignments. Got As and Bs on tests.

But right now, getting up is as unthinkable as winning gold for hockey, or getting asked to join the NFL tomorrow.

Dave rolls onto his back and stares up at the white spackled ceiling instead. He’s already missed Monday’s class this week; another day can’t make that much of a difference.

 

The problem is that sleeping is so much _easier_ than going to class, or going to practice, or explaining to Azimio why he doesn’t want to hang out anymore. They used to go to the gym two days a week in addition to practice, used to push losers and faggots into lockers and laugh about it while they patted each other on the back. Dave feels too tired for the gym, or shoving people, or Azimio. When he does go to class, he can’t even concentrate. Teachers call him out on not having done the readings, on not being able to remember their questions. And it’s not as though his parents have noticed his absence from school; his mom and dad both start work early in the morning and generally return after he would already be home.

Dave knows, distantly, that eventually someone at the school will call his parents. Coach Beiste or Principle Figgins or _someone_ is going to call and tell his parents all about the skipping, the failing grades, the falling asleep in class.

The idea should frighten him.

He feels numb instead. The anger that has been with him for so long now – the frustration, the need to hurt – has fizzled up and left him empty, impotent. He has no idea what to do now that it is gone.

 _Sleep is just easier_ , Dave decides, and lets his eyes close again.

 

\--

 

It isn’t that Dave’s parents are abusive. Or bible-thumping fundamentalists. Or angry people at all, really.

The three of them are sitting around the small dining room table, a steaming bowl of _bigos_ in front of each of them and a crusty loaf of dark brown bread on a plate in the centre of the table. Paul Karofsky might be second generation, but Dave’s father still remembers how to cook Polish staples. Their dinners are variable and contradictory; _pierogi_ with thick-cut onion one night, hamburgers and wedge fries the next. Regardless, dinner is always hearty and delicious.

“This is good, Paul,” says Dave’s mom, breaking the silence. She cannot cook even a grilled cheese sandwich without potentially causing a house fire.  Elaine Karofsky is a tax lawyer at a small local firm, and has more important things to do than learn to cook a roast or boil pasta correctly.  Everything about her is tiny; her small hand reaches up to brush her short blonde hair out of her eyes.  

Paul nods, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he ducks his head down to catch another spoonful of stew. A professor of Organic Chemistry at Ohio State University Lima Campus, Dave’s father is an intelligent but quiet man: he enjoys his television programs and goes to bed by ten o’clock every night.

Dave isn’t quite sure how the two of them managed to produce _him_.

“Yes, it’s really nice, Dad,” he says.

Silence reigns again.

No. It’s not that Dave’s parents are angry people in the slightest.

They are... distant. Detached.  Caring in an unspoken kind of way. Both Elaine and Paul are utter individuals; they rotate around each other and their son within the confines of their own home, interacting as though each family member were sketched on separate sheets of overlapping tracing paper. Close, very close – but never quite on the same level, never quite able to relate. The twin beasts of politics and religion are never mentioned at the dinner table; Dave doesn’t even think his parents tell each other who they vote for.

Nevertheless, Dave’s parents do know each other inside and out. They are strong as individuals; they are strong as a unit.

Sometimes Dave doesn’t know why they decided to fuck it all up with a kid.

The silence is long and unbroken, but comfortable. It hadn’t been until Dave had started visiting friends’ houses at the age of ten and eleven that he had realized how unusual his home life was compared to others. The first time he’d visited Azimio’s house, he’d almost been overwhelmed by the sheer _noise_ of it. Azimio’s precocious little sister had taken him immediately by the hand and led him to the kitchen table, where she had regaled him with stories about her day at school and the kind of horses she wanted one day and whateverthefuck else little girls talk about. Mr. Adams had spent the afternoon in the den, shouting out the score of the football game whenever someone made a touchdown. At dinner, Mrs. Adams had smiled brightly while she chided Dave for being too thin and scooped extra potatoes onto his plate. 

It had been nice. Normal. Dave still likes spending afternoons there.

The worst thing – the very worst thing – is that Dave is fairly certain his parents wouldn’t be angry if he told them that he’s... like that. He’s almost positive they wouldn’t be pissed, or kick him out of the house, or anything dramatic like they show in movies or T.V. or whatever.

They just wouldn’t know what to say, or how to act, or how to deal with him.

And that is immeasurably more terrifying.

 “David,” begins his father, wiping a small amount of stew from his grey beard with a napkin. “Did you have a good day at school?”

“Mmhmm,” Dave says quietly. A pause. “Practice went well.”

His father passes him the bread.

 

\--

 

The days when he does go to school are worse.

Dave can’t bring himself to really eat lunch anymore – _which would be enough to freak anyone out,_ he thinks bitterly. The cafeteria smells oppressive and greasy and sick, and he finds himself making more and more excuses to not join his friends in shovelling in pizza pockets and chicken strips. When teachers call on him in class now, it catches him by surprise – makes him jolt out of whatever absent daydream he’d fallen into. Dave might stomp and crack his knuckles with the rest of the jocks, but he always used to do readings and homework before everything happened. Azimio had teased him for it mercilessly.  Now, Dave can’t even answer their questions half the time.

It makes him cringe.

He hates himself for not being able to _care_.

Azimio, the hockey team, and the football team have no idea what’s wrong with him. He goes to practice most days, but it’s impossible to pay attention – to run the right way or tackle the right guy. Everyone’s all in red and white, wrapped in brightness and armour and muscle and _they all look the same_. After a few days of barely trying, Coach Beiste takes him aside. Every line on her gruff face reads ‘serious conversation’.

 _Gotta pick it up, Karofsky. Gotta bring your A-game.  Can’t keep showing up all half-assed, boy; we have a game to worry about soon._

Dave nods, apologizes. Makes all the right sounds in all the right places. Starts tying little harder to make it look like he gives a shit.

She doesn’t talk to him about it again.

Azimio is harder to shake off.

“C’mon, man,” he says, holding up the teeming Big Quench cup . “Cherry’s your favourite, right? Well, fucking Glee Club just had some huge competition or whatever last night. I figure we can give ‘em a friendly welcome back this morning.” Azimio waggles his eyebrows. The icy red slushie sloshes around in the cup.

It would be so easy to take it. To find Hummel in the hallway, all dressed up in something tight and faggy. To throw the liquid ice into his perfect fucking face. Mess him up. Give Fancy something to think about all day. It would make Azimio happy, and that would be something. His best friend has been looking more and more confused and hurt and suspicious every time he begs off a dumpster toss. Every time he ditches the gym for some reason or another; Dave can’t even keep all his excuses straight anymore.

It would be so easy.

And all at once, the look of utter shock and revulsion on Kurt’s face after Dave had kissed him springs into his mind. The terror in Kurt’s pretty blue eyes in the dream; scrunching up his delicate, soft features and _Karofsky, please stop. Please. You don’t know what you’re doing._

His stomach clenches painfully and bile rises in the back of his throat. Azimio’s eyes widen.

“Shit, man. You just went white like a sheet or some shit. You okay?”

“Fuck, ‘m gonna be sick,” chokes Dave, and without another word he turns and stumbles to the bathroom.

Later, sitting together right before French, Dave mumbles something about stomach flu and apologizes. Azimio nods, claps him on the shoulder. Says everything is okay.

Azimio stops talking to him as much, after that. The Glee Club losers start giving him weird looks in the hallway, glancing at each other in quiet bewilderment.

Kurt... Kurt doesn’t look at him at all. Just rushes past with his head down, clutching that bookbag of his tightly and never, ever looking Dave in the eyes.

And Dave can’t _tell_. Has no idea if Kurt is scared of him, or pissed, or repulsed, or if he’s going to be a huge bitch and tell everyone about just how messed up Dave Karofsky really is. Like he told that fucking fairy boyfriend of his, all tiny and curly-haired and smug. ( _Fuck_ , that guy. What a douche bag. Didn’t even try to stop Dave when he shoved Kurt into the fence, or take him on, or fight back. Fucking pussy, not brave enough to stand up for Kurt, perfect Kurt, tinydecliate _fuckingfuck_.)

Dave has no idea if Kurt’s told that asshole everything. Maybe Kurt cries about it to him – whines about how school is _hard_ , and people _hate_ him – right before their small bodies twine together, and Pretty Boy kisses the curve of Kurt’s neck _just there_ and makes him shudder and moan.

He has no idea whether Kurt is just angry about Dave deigning to touch him, or if he’s terrified that the hulking bully of his nightmares will grab him and shove him into an empty classroom. Push him. Humiliate him. Force him.

Dave thinks that not knowing _what the hell Kurt is thinking_ might be the worst of all.

 

-

 

Three weeks after Dave Karofsky kissed Kurt Hummel and ruined everything, Dave writes a math test.

More accurately, heattempts to write a math test. 

Dave is good at math. Numbers and equations are simple, finite. No complicated responses, no grey areas. Just _a + b = c_. Math used to be a class he didn’t have to pretend to hate, either. Because literature is faggy and history is a waste of time, but even jocks can be good at math and not have to hide it. It’s manly, all hard lines and rationality. It was always acceptable.

But on this day, the equations and lines and graphs on the page don’t make any sense. It probably doesn’t help that his sleep schedule is completely fucked from too many days’ spent dozing through school and staying up late until night turns to morning. He’s exhausted, and his whole body aches, and he’s hungry but can’t make himself eat the food here anymore. The room is so silent except for frantically scribbling pencils and the too-loud _tick-tick-tick_ of the clock at the front of the room, and it’s just too much. Dave reads the written questions over and over before realizing that they are, in fact, illegible. He recognizes the words and numbers, knows what they mean individually; but putting them into strings is too much, too much and it doesn’t make sense anymore.

 _Train A is travelling west from New York to Los Angeles at X miles per hour. Train B is travelling North at Y miles per hour from Tallahassee to Lansing. Based on the map above, how long will it take before Kurt Hummel and Dave Karofsky collide and explode into a million pieces of Dave’s stupid, useless, faggot life?_

And now the Xs and Ys and coefficients and divisors are sliding together on the page as though someone has tipped the paper up. The lines all tumble together into a heap, a great pile of graphite on lined paper and Dave’s head tips backward and his eyes flutter mercifully closed.

 

And then there is Kurt.

Kurt Hummel, draped over the desk haphazardly as Dave pounds into his hot, tight ass. The smaller boy is all slender legs and mussed up hair, rosy cheeks and a small, proud erection. Kurt’s moaning like a whore, hands clenching the legs of the desk intermittently as Dave gives him exactly what he deserves.

Dave feels Kurt’s heat around him, and he knows he can’t possibly be the first man to do this. Because Kurt is confident, and brave, and astonishingly beautiful, and there is no way other guys haven’t seen that and wanted it and _taken_ it. It doesn’t matter that there are no other self-admitted fags at school; everyone thinks _Dave’s_ straight. That doesn’t stop him from wanting the boy.

 God, he wants him more than anything.

Kurt hisses as Dave slams into him particularly hard, and Dave smoothes his hands over the smaller boy’s slim, perfectly curved-in waist before his large hand slides down to grip his cock.

“Dave – oh, fuck, I want it so bad,” he moans, and his legs clench around Dave’s thick middle. “Want it – want _you_ , I –”

 

The sensation of falling surrounds him, and Dave jerks awake as his head falls onto his shoulder. He’s hard, and wanting, and _in the middle of taking a fucking math test_ , Jesus Christ. He becomes aware that he’s breathing heavier than he should be, and looks around the room slightly frantically. If he made any noise, or said anything, or –

But everyone is still scribbling madly, utterly focused on the test. Dave looks up at the clock. There is only ten minutes left in the period.

He mentally slaps himself across the face, tries to focus. At the end of the class, the test he hands in is maybe a quarter complete.

Dave skips the rest of his classes and goes home to sleep it off instead. 

 

\--

 

One day, when Dave arrives home in what should be the middle of his school day, his dad is sitting at the dining room table surrounded by stacks of paper. A large, steaming mug of tea sits amid the chaos. Internally, Dave swears. He’d completely spaced that it was Wednesday. Due to the university’s rather eccentric schedule, Paul Karofsky generally doesn’t have any classes after mid-morning on Wednesdays, and he often chooses to work from home instead.

His father looks mildly surprised to see him.

“David,” he says, confusion drawing his grey, bushy eyebrows together. “What are you doing home? It’s—”

“I don’t feel very well,” says Dave, a little too quickly.

“Are you sure you –?”

“It’s _fine_ , dad.” Dave’s voice sounds strained and gruff to his own ears. He just wants to finish this conversation and return to the safety of his own bed. Lie down, close his eyes, block it all out. But snapping at his dad won’t solve anything; will only make the older man confused and suspicious.

Dave never snaps at his parents.

He breathes, reigns himself in, and then speaks again. “I just feel really sick. I think I want to go to bed, if that’s okay.”

Paul Karofsky hesitates, a strange look coming over his face. He picks up the cup of tea and sips it thoughtfully. Dave can smell lemongrass from across the room. Eventually, his dad speaks again.

“Your football coach called here a few days ago,” says Paul carefully, neutrally. Not quite looking Dave in the eye. “Coach... ‘Beast’, is that even her real name?” He shakes his head. “She told me you’ve been cutting practice lately.”

Dave can’t think of anything to say to that.

“David,” says Paul, looking profoundly uncomfortable with this conversation. He takes another long sip of tea before continuing. “You know your mother and I... we just want you to be happy. We want you to know that.”

 _What the fuck does that even mean?_

“Okay,” says Dave. “Okay, I know. Can I just go back to bed now?”

“Of course,” says Paul, and as Dave tries to avoid looking at his worried, slightly crumpled face as he turns and heads up the stairs.

 

\--

 

The dreams are so much worse than they used to be.

Dave has been dreaming about Kurt Hummel for over a year, but now his brain can supply memories to back up the fantasy. They fill in the details: how Kurt’s lips felt when he kissed them, how soft and smooth his face was when Dave had cradled it in his hand.

He is lying on his back, naked but for his bright letterman’s jacket, on the floor of the scuzzy, dimly-lit locker room. The one where Kurt confronted him, where he’d shouted and pointed and looked so viciously beautiful that Dave just couldn’t stop himself anymore. Bright red lockers line the walls. The clinical fluorescent lighting is softer, gentler somehow. The room seems frayed and fuzzy around the edges.

 Kurt is naked above him, kneeling with one leg on either side of Dave’s broad waist. He looks tiny above him, long and slender and delicate as he straddles Dave’s own much-larger body. Kurt’s cock is hard and rosy, and Dave can feel his own erection pressing against the curve of Kurt’s tight ass.

But the look on his face is... _God._

Once, Dave had seen Kurt perform “Push It” at a school assembly. The performance itself had been caustic and vulgar, designed to awe and tempt and impress. But while his teammates had stared at Berry as she strutted around the stage, or Chang as she flipped her hair and bent over salaciously, Dave hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Kurt Hummel. So icy and composed and bitchy in the hallways at school, this Kurt had twisted and thrusted viscerally on stage as hundreds of people watched. He’d crawled across the stage on all fours, face a perfect culmination of self-confident sexuality and unadulterated enjoyment.

Kurt’s face is identically smug and sultry as he raises himself up, adjusts their positions. As he ever-so-slowly lowers himself onto Dave’s cock – already slick and stretched and prepared. Kurt looks as though there is _nothing_ he would rather be doing, _nothing_ better than the slow ache as Dave’s cock inches inside and fills him up. The sensation of Kurt’s ass squeezing around the tip of Dave’s cock is _unbelievably_ good, and Dave groans uselessly as Kurt keeps pushing down, impaling himself maddeningly slowly.  The smaller boy cries out softly and gasps as he sinks lower and lower, a look of absolute bliss on his face. He is writhing by the time Dave is fully seated inside of him, head thrown back and trembling and stretched _so tight_ around Dave’s cock.

Dave wants to raise his hands to Kurt’s slim waist, to run his hands along the skin he knows will be smooth and perfect. To thrust up, deep into Kurt’s hot body. But he can’t; his hands are dead weights on either side of his body, pinned against the cold linoleum floor. It is as though he’s trapped in quicksand, frozen in time – and all he can do is lie there and watch the boy on top of him.

Kurt begins to move, and the slow drag of his ass as it moves around Dave’s cock is obscene, maddening. The smaller boy is groaning now, hand fluttering up to his face as he maintains the agonizingly languid rhythm. They’re whining, wanton moans – like something from porn. Kurt’s high voice reverberates off the locker room walls as he slides up and down, up and down. Dave isn’t fucking him; he’s fucking _himself_ on Dave’s cock, long and deep and slow. Kurt’s hands are moving all over his own body, dancing over his own nipples and pulling at his own small erection.

And Dave can’t move. He lies there, heavy and bulky as Kurt rides his cock endlessly, arching up gracefully and moaning like a whore. He is slender and brave and beautiful. Dave is disgusting; a chubby boy who sweats too much, scared of himself and taking up space on the ground. It seems to last forever. Neither of them ever orgasm; they are trapped, unfulfilled and wanting, in an endless loop of pleasure and disgust. It goes on and on and on, an eternal aching slide of skin on skin until –

 

He wakes.

Panting and desperately hard, Dave wakes to sweat-soaked sheets and soft morning light. His alarm buzzes angrily from his bedside table, boxy red numbers flashing 7:45am. Dave shakily shuts it off and rolls onto his back, breath still coming hard and uneven.  He runs a hand through his sweaty, matted hair. It takes a long few minutes before he is able to regain some semblance of composure.

 _I can miss my first class_ , Dave thinks dully, sleep beginning to drag temptingly at the corners of his mind. _I already missed English twice this week; once more can’t make any difference._

He sleeps through both his first and second classes. When he finally stumbles out of bed two hours later to head to his third, he leaves his letterman’s jacket hung over his desk chair.

 

\--

 

Dave knows that he should be working on his American History essay.  

He knows this in a bone-deep, matter of fact way. It’s Thursday night, and his paper is due at 9:00am on Friday morning at the beginning of class. It’s been assigned since the beginning of the semester. The essay itself is even on a topic he’d been interested in: ‘The Impact of Industrialization on 19th Century America.’ Dave even has good notes from the day they’d spent covering the topic over a month ago.

Generally, Dave begins take-home essays at least a few days before they’re due; this time, however, the idea of sitting down and just _writing_ the damn thing has seemed... insurmountable. Unthinkable. The few times Dave has tried, he hadn’t been able to focus at all, eventually slamming his laptop shut in frustration.

Dave knows that if he does not start writing now, at 2:37am, even pulling an all-nighter will not be enough. There will be no physical way he can possibly complete anything half decent by morning if he does not begin writing _immediately_ , this instant, right now.

Instead, Dave watches sci-fi.

Not even just _good_ sci-fi, like normal people sometimes watch on television and it’s okay and no one thinks they’re losers. Bad sci-fi, too.  Cheesy sci-fi. Really old sci-fi. The kinda stuff that even die-hard fans have to preface with, “Hey, that shit’s classic!” It’s stupid, and lame, and Dave blames his dad completely.

Paul Karofsky has always been into science fiction. Their shelves in the den are teeming three-deep with well-read paperbacks, dog-eared and spines long broken. Books with spaceships, aliens, and well-endowed ladies holding blasters sprawled across their covers. When Dave was a little kid and his dad hadn’t got the permanent position at the university yet, Paul Karofsky looked after Dave while Elaine went to the office. He stayed home most days, picked Dave up from school, made his lunch. And it was simply easier for his dad to plunk him down in front of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ or _Babylon 5_ rather than attempting to have an actual conversation with him. Watching sci-fi together was always bonding time; Dave and his dad followed reruns of the original _Battlestar Galactica_ like some fathers and sons followed sports.

As a result, Dave has possibly seen the original _Star Wars_ trilogy more times than everyone else at his school combined.

 _Including_ Abrams and Puckerman.

Of course, as Dave got older he realized how completely fucking stupid it all is. Sci-fi is for losers; for nerds who are never going to get laid. Hating that geeky shit was just another facet to who he was at school: the red-and-yellow jacket, the scowl, the jocky friends.

All of that bullshit.

In the past week, Dave has watched two seasons of _Star Trek: The Original Series_ and the entirety of _Firefly._ It’s like he can’t stop himself; like he has a physical need to watch episode after episode of shitty special effects, and half-assed morals, and plot holes the size of galaxies. Families through space and brave new worlds.

It’s as comforting as food or alcohol or sleep, in its own way.

So instead of starting his paper, Dave sits in bed with his laptop and his headphones plugged in and watches disc after disc of the new _Battlestar Galactica_. The humans drift through the vastness of space trying to find earth, and Dave can barely even follow the characters or the storyline or the dialogue anymore. It’s all noise and colour and religious symbolism as his eyelids get heavier and his muscles get sorer.

The red numbers on his alarm clock keep on changing persistently.

3:00am.

 4:00am.

5:00am.

The disc ends. Dave takes it out and inserts another one.

 

\--

 

It’s on a Tuesday afternoon out a month after the locker room incident when Hummel corners him in a mostly-empty hallway.

It happens when Dave is heading from English to American History. Dave is almost positive he is going to fail the latter class, a shame he has never experienced before despite the sorts of friends he keeps. He is trying to imagine the look of disappointment on his dad the professor’s face when Kurt rounds the corner ahead and Dave is suddenly staring right at the person he’s been trying to avoid above all.

He looks fucking ridiculous, tarted up with a snugly-fitting hat and a pair of jeans so tight they almost look painted on. His shirt is some silly purple number; it has a funny neckline that exposes a long stretch of pale neck. It takes Dave a moment to realize that Kurt is trying to get his attention, looking guarded but determined. For a second, Dave looks right into Kurt’s eyes – fucking _blue,_ and sharp as hell – before he looks down at the floor and keeps walking.

“ _Hey_!” hisses Kurt, and Dave looks up just in time to see the smaller boy stride purposefully up to him. “I’m _talking_ to you,” says Kurt, obviously irritated. But there is an underlying hint of confusion in his words, and his voice remains low and secretive. There are only one or two other people in this hallway, and none of them seem to be paying the two of them any attention.

Kurt’s not looking to make a scene, Dave realizes. He wants answers.

Dave is almost twice the size of Kurt – only a few inches taller, perhaps, but broad and big and bulky. Kurt looks as though he is even struggling slightly under the weight of his own bookbag. But somehow Dave is utterly helpless as Kurt stops immediately in front of him, blocking his way forward. Dave could shove him into the lockers, or punch him in that girly fucking mouth and _make_ him move. But he knows he won’t do either of those things. Kurt Hummel is stronger than him, and better than him, and harder than him in so many ways that Dave has spent years denying, and it is Kurt who is entirely in control of this encounter. This realization is terrifying. 

“What the hell is going on with you, Karofsky?” Kurt’s voice is fast and angry, as though this is something he has been waiting to ask Dave for _ages_. Like he’s been trying to find a moment, to work up the nerve to have this conversation for days _._ The thought that it is _Dave_ who Kurt has been thinking about, _Dave_ who has brought that tiny flush to Hummel’s cheek makes something hot twinge in his stomach – before Dave ruthlessly crushes excitement.

Kurt never asked for his attention. Never wanted to be the object of some weirdo’s fantasies.

And Kurt is still talking.

“First you do – _that_ – in the locker room, and then you push Blaine around when he tries to _help_ you, and now you’ve just – just –” The smaller boy cuts himself off, looking exasperated, before continuing. “ _What is your angle with this_? Moping around, skipping your Cro-Magnon tackle-fests, refusing to slushie the Glee club with Azimio – oh, don’t give me that look. Of course I know. _Everyone_ knows, Karofsky. But they don’t know half of what I do.”

For a moment, Dave thinks he might actually be physically ill. A sickly, cold feeling is washing over his entire body, but it’s as though it’s happening to someone else.

They know. Everyone knows that something’s wrong with him. The past four weeks, it’s felt as though he has existed within his own self-contained world. None of it has mattered, not really. None of it was real.

But it is real. And now it’s only a matter of time before they realize exactly what is wrong with him.

“Just – just tell me what you want from me, all right?” Kurt says after he doesn’t immediately respond. His hand jerks up automatically as if to rake a hand through his hair, but he stalls it in mid-air. His arm returns back down to his side, and Kurt takes a deep, shaky breath. “Because – I just can’t take not knowing anymore, all right?” There is a slight quaver to Kurt’s voice. “I can’t do it. I can’t handle not knowing how much of this is acting, or if any of it is actually real, or if you’re just trying to make me feel safe again before you  do something worse, and – and I can’t _do_ this anymore.”  

 _He’s scared of me,_ thinks Dave, horrified realization creeping in. _He’s really,_ really _scared of me._ Taunting Kurt, hurting Kurt, belittling Kurt – it’s always been a way to make himself feel better, make the voice inside him shut the fuck up and keep himself going for a few more days. _But this was never a little thing for him. Jesus Christ, I fucking terrified him. And after all that, not knowing was the worst part for him, too._

Then the significance of Kurt’s words sinks in.

“Wait, what?” says Dave, the first words he’s spoken since Kurt managed to corner him. “K— Hummel, I don’t. I don’t want anything from you.”

It’s a lie, and Kurt seems to realize it.

“Oh, really?” he sneers, bitch-ice veneer fully back in place. Kurt disdainfully drags his eyes all the way down Dave’s body and up again, meeting his eyes with an ugly curl to his lips. And Dave feels sick again because, yeah. He _does_ want something from Kurt. He wants _everything_ from Kurt. And he is never going to have it. An image from last night’s dream flashes, unwanted, into Dave’s mind.

 _Kurt, on his knees in Dave’s bedroom, his mouth wrapped around Dave’s cock and his fingers gripping almost painfully into Dave’s thighs._

 _Those too-pretty lips all stretched around him and mouth so hungry, so desperate, practically gagging himself on Dave’s cock while Dave leans against his bedroom wall lets Kurt wring frantic groans out of him. His bright blue eyes dart up and catch Dave’s, his movement never stopping, and with a twist of his wicked tongue Dave knows with absolutely certainty that there is nothing Kurt would rather be doing than taste him, please him._

“Karofsky, what the fuck?”

Dave comes back to himself, and Kurt’s staring at him as though he’s about to explode. His knees feel like they’re about to give out.

“I have to go,” he mumbles, or something like it, and he sidesteps Kurt and begins speedwalking down the hallway toward the parking lot. Fuck American History. Fuck school. Fuck Hummel.

Kurt calls something after him, but Dave has no idea what the words mean. They are just noise in the still air.

 

\--

 

When Dave gets home, his mother is waiting for him.

The sight of her perched on the living room couch, obviously anxious, makes Dave stop in his tracks. She is wringing her hands, a sign of distress Dave doesn’t think he’s ever seen his mother stoop to. After a long moment, she seems to become aware of his presence with a jolt.

“Mom?” he says, confusion leaking through his voice. Why would she be home so early on a weekday?

“David,” she says, brow furrowing. “You’re home  –” But she cuts herself off, eyes darting to the phone sitting in its cradle. Dave knows suddenly and with absolute certainty that she has finally has received a call from the school. About the absences, or the failing grade, or skipping more practice. Elaine’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and she stiffly motions for Dave to sit next to her. He does so, already hearing the conversation in his mind. He has rarely been rebuked by either of his parents – he’s hardly ever needed it – but the words will be familiar nonetheless.

 _Your father and I... disappointed... unusual behaviour for you... school is your job, David, and you need to make a bigger commitment._

But Elaine doesn’t immediately launch into the pre-prepared speech. Instead, she looks at him. Looks at him for one minute, and then two, and it dawns on Dave just how _bad_ he must look. He hasn’t slept properly in weeks, and he skipped having a shower this morning after he slept in thirty minutes longer than he intended.  He isn’t wearing his letterman’s jacket – just some black t-shirt he found on the floor of his bedroom – and its absence suddenly makes him feel inexplicably naked, even just in front of his own mother. His eyes must be slightly red-rimmed from his drive home after Hummel. Dave wants badly to scrub at his face, and barely manages to stop himself.

Elaine keeps looking at her son.

Gradually, he becomes aware that his mother doesn’t look well either. She looks... tired, and her face seems to sag slightly in a way Dave has never noticed before. It hits him that his parents are getting older, and one day they will be elderly, and one day they will be dead.

“David,” she finally begins, once her long stare has grown so uncomfortable Dave is barely stopping himself from twitching in place. “Sweetie.” The term, which would generally sound stilted from either of his parents’ lips – they simply aren’t very affectionate people – is said with a catch in Elaine’s voice. It makes Dave’s eyes sting and his throat feel thick. Because this is all wrong, and different, and not normal at all.

Slowly, gently, Elaine Karofsky reaches out and places a small hand on her son’s knee. “You know you can tell us anything, don’t you?” As she says the words, her eyes never leave his.

A sob wrenches itself from Dave’s throat, and all at once Elaine has her tiny arms around his broad shoulders, and he’s crying and leaning into her and saying _mom, mommy_ over and over as she rubs comforting circles on his back and holds him close. And it’s stupid, and weak, and awful, but he can’t stop himself now. Because no one – neither of his parents, or his friends, or any person in Dave’s life has _ever_ said that to him before now. Has ever told him that he could tell them anything, anything at all – that they would care, and listen, and not hate him for what he said. And it’s all too much.

Dave cries, and cries, and feels his eyes grow puffy and the snot run down his face, and he just can’t care anymore. He can’t care, not now, and the comforting smell of his mother is all around him, and she’s holding him tight, and whispering _it’s okay_ , _it’s okay_ over and over.

“I messed it up,” chokes Dave, and he feels about five years old. He has not cried like this in years; uncontrollably, seemingly unendingly. Elaine is so much smaller than him, but she seems to envelop him. Her hands are still rubbing warm circles into his back. “I messed it all up so badly, mommy.”

“I know, baby.” Her words are gentle and loving, and Dave thinks _no, you don’t know any of it_ before shoving the thought away. Because Elaine Karofsky does not know what her son is capable of, or what his secrets are, or how badly he has managed to ruin everything. But she is willing to listen, and right now that is enough. He squeezes his mother tightly and she quietly repeats herself: “I know.”

It is a long night. Paul arrives home not too long after Dave’s outburst – they’d clearly been planning some sort of intervention – and the look of sadness on his dad’s crumpled face is enough to make Dave bite his lip hard and clench his hands into fists.

The resulting conversation is... it’s hard, and awkward, full of long pauses and carefully selected words. It’s difficult, and terrible, and Elaine and Paul hold hands while their son talks. Their faces are the picture of quiet attention as he lays himself open at their feet.

The talk lasts long into the evening. When it is over, Elaine makes tea and Paul starts work on enchiladas, and everything should be different now. Everything should be weird and stilted and sidestepping the elephant in the room. But the silence is comfortable and normal, and yeah, Dave’s eyes are sore and his face is blotchy. But the tea is hot and the enchiladas are delicious.

Everything _is_ different. But Dave shocks himself by being unable to tell whether the difference is good, or bad, or neither.

He gets an entire night’s sleep for the first time in a month, and dreams of nothing at all for the first time in much, much longer.

 

 

 

The End


End file.
